* * * * *
The following Sunday my husband was watching the NFL pre-game show. Todd, having been out late with Pam and friends, was sleeping in. I had some ironing to do. Normally I’d do it with my husband as he watched football, but today I didn’t.
Last night we had the house to ourselves. I dressed seductively, made his favorite meal, made clear what I wanted (what I needed), walked him upstairs, rubbed his back, used my fingers and mouth on him, got him ready, took him inside. His effort was, what’s the right word, how about workmanlike, that might be a bit generous, but yeah, I’ll go with workmanlike. He came, I came, a little one. I could have come again, a big one, but he rolled over, checked his tablet, fell asleep.
It was our best sex in long while and it was crappy sex. The model I had in mind was Milla and Williams, fiery, relentless, intense, all-consuming.
No, today I would iron in my bedroom, look out over the neighborhood, feel sorry for myself.
I set up the board, filled the iron with water, divided the clothes by fabric. William was by the pool. He’d set up the grill. Milla appeared, dropped two steaks on the flames.
They looked good in bathing suits.
They looked happy.
I’d started my fifth shirt when they finished eating and dipped into the water. Her arm snaked around her son’s head, she brought his mouth to hers.
I finished that shirt and a pair of pants while they made out like horny high schoolers. Then William pulled Milla’s bikini top off and sucked one of her breasts into his mouth, made love to it, took his time, the way you’re supposed to, not as a way-station on a journey someplace else, but as a place worthy of a prolonged stay. He licked along its underside — her grip tightened on his shoulder — then worked her areola. He turned to her nipple, tickled it with the tip of his tongue, licked it with the flat of his tongue, rolled it between his lips. Milla clutched his head, shifted position, fed him her other breast.
My husband had never paid this kind of attention to my breasts. If my son was, as Pammie reported, a good lover, it wasn’t genetic.
William lifted his mother up, sat her on the edge of the pool, ducked his head between her legs. Leaning back on a mat placed there, I assume, for just this purpose, she spread her legs wide.
She shaved down there.
Sitting the iron upright, leaving the shirt unfinished, I moved closer to the window.
William was taking long slow licks, bottom to top. Milla’s head was angled back, her eyes closed, breathing through her mouth, chest heaving.
I slipped my hand through the folds of my robe into my panties, found my clit, wet, swollen and stiff, rocked my hips on my hand.
William, licking his mother’s clit, pushed a finger inside her.
I sank a finger inside myself, let out a long moan. I wanted a lover like William.
“Mom, you okay?”
My son, wearing only gym shorts — he had a nice body — was standing in the doorway. He must have woken up, gone to the bathroom, heard my moan.
Hand in my panties, I said, “I was just….”